‘The laws of nature.’ She smiled. ‘They fascinate me.’
I motioned with my hand towards the two seats on the other side of my desk. ‘Please.’ The two girls sat down. ‘Did you bring your exam?’
Amani placed her black bag on my desk and extracted her exam paper. As she laid it in front of me, she tilted her head and pushed back her silky hair while her eyes remained locked into mine.
I tried not to look at her.
‘Let’s start with the first question. A 0.2 hp motor is used to lift a crate at the rate of 5.0 cm/s. How great a crate can it raise at this constant speed?’ I cleared my throat. ‘We assume the power output of the motor to be 0.25 hp=186.5 W. In 1.0 s, the crate mg is lifted a distance of 0.050 m.’ I opened my mouth to conclude, when Amani interrupted.
‘Therefore, work done in 1.0=(weight)(height change in 1.0 s)=(mg)(0.050 m). By definition, power=work/time, so that 185.5 W=(mg)(0.00 m)1.0 s. Using g=9.81 m/s2, we find that m=381 kg. The motor can lift a crate of about 0.38×103 kg at this constant speed.’
I stared at her.
She winked at me.
I glanced at the clock. I had to go and teach my Advanced Physics class in five minutes. I arranged to meet Amani again the following morning in my office, though I was beginning to suspect that she didn’t really need the help. I wondered why she’d done so badly in her exam.
I felt empowered to stand in front of the class even though I was in Mama’s homemade clothing. The power balance had changed. In my classes, I was the authority figure. With Amani especially, the teaching gave me confidence.
Both Israelis and Arabs told me I looked like the actor Omar Sharif. I saw his picture in an Israeli newspaper. Nasser’s government had almost withdrawn his citizenship when his affair with Barbara Streisand, a vocal supporter of Israel, was made public in the Egyptian press. At times, I’d catch the Israeli girls looking at me, but I’d never felt confident until I’d begun teaching.
After coming to my office every morning for a week with her friend by her side, Amani arrived alone. When I opened the door for her to enter, she didn’t come in.
‘Silwah’s sick today.’ She smiled and raised her eyebrows.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I’ll leave the door open.’
With a grin on her face, she entered my office and sat in her chair. I sat down next to her. She turned her head towards me and our eyes met again. Neither of us acknowledged it, but I was sure we had fallen in love.
***
Amani passed Moed Bet with a perfect score. I would’ve liked to attribute her success to my tutoring, but I was beginning to suspect she had failed her first exam on purpose. Did she do it to get to know me better?
My younger sister Nadia had been wed the previous month to a widower named Ziad. He had seven young children. Mama was beside herself with glee. The groom’s wife had just died and neither our family nor his could afford a wedding. Mama brought the marriage contract home for Nadia to sign.
Nadia first met her husband after they were married, when she moved into a room half the size of my student room in his parents’ home with him and his seven children. I felt bad that Baba hadn’t been there to see his daughter move into her husband’s family’s home and so I promised myself that I would wait for him to be released before I married. He was thrilled when I wrote to him about Amani. I told him that I wouldn’t marry until he was released from prison. My mother was eager for me to start my family, but she also wanted Baba to be there. He wrote back that I didn’t have to wait, but I convinced him that it would be better for my studies if I graduated first and he agreed.
***
By the end of my master’s degree, Professor Sharon and I were just beginning to get some insight into how to go about building materials from the bottom up. He suggested I do my dissertation on the subject, but I argued that it was still in its infancy. It did have great potential, but that could take decades and I needed something ripe, secure and quick, for Baba’s sake.
‘If you want to get the fruit, you have to go out on a limb.’ He explained it was a long-term investment. ‘We can do it if we work together.’
‘But my family—’
‘Do you want the safe and easy road, or the road that leads to greatness?’
‘My father—’
‘Does he want a son who settles for less than his ability or a son who reaches his full potential?’
What could I do but agree?
***
Professor Sharon and Justice had got married during the middle of my master’s degree. Amani and I had formed a platonic relationship and continued to meet to discuss her physics homework. We didn’t need to speak of the chemistry between us. I also knew nothing sexual would ever transpire, not so much as a kiss, until we were married. Everyone, however, knew we were a couple, because Amani continued to meet me in my office after she passed my class, semester after semester, for the next two and a half years. She was scheduled to finish her bachelor’s degree the same year I’d be finishing the first year of my PhD. Every semester, she made the Dean’s List and was at the top of her class.
Two weeks before Amani was to graduate and return to her village, she and I were sitting in my office. She was preparing for her final in astrophysics when I looked into her honey-coloured eyes. I longed to run my fingers through her silky black hair and unzip her cream-coloured dress, but I knew I couldn’t even kiss her.
‘Will you do me the incredible honour of becoming my wife?’ I should’ve asked her father first, but those rules only applied in the village.
She smiled.
‘My father’s in prison.’ I looked down at my desk, afraid to see her reaction. Every time the subject of Baba came up, I found a way to sidestep it. Our relationship was limited to her visits to my office. Anything else could have got her into trouble with her family.
‘I didn’t know,’ she said.
‘He’ll be released at the end of the school year.’ I didn’t want to tell her how long he’d been incarcerated. ‘I’d like to marry you then.’
‘My father.’ Her face looked like she had just drunk sour milk. ‘He won’t authorise me to marry unless it’s done according to tradition.’
‘Where should we hold the wedding?’ I asked.
‘Anywhere but Acre.’ She smiled.
‘Where shall we live?’
She shrugged.
‘I love you.’ I gazed into her eyes. I longed to touch her hand and hold it in mine.
Amani leaned forward and kissed me. Her kiss caught me off guard. I wanted her to touch me more; my whole body ached. I shut my eyes for a moment. She smelled like a fresh breeze.
‘Amani,’ I said, and held her face. She smiled and kissed me again. I knew there would only be that one opportunity to kiss her so I held her face as long as I could. Her eyelashes fluttered. We bent our heads together.
‘Is Jameel in your room?’ she asked.
Had I heard her correctly? We couldn’t go any further. If anyone found out, not only would Amani’s reputation be destroyed, but so would that of her family. No one would marry her unwed sisters; people would speak poorly about her parents. If Amani’s family was conservative enough, she could even be beaten or killed. What was she thinking?
CHAPTER 33
Abbas and I waited at the gate of the Dror Detention Centre. I thought about what would have happened if Jameel hadn’t been in the room. No, I told myself, we would be married soon enough. Mama and Nadia were home preparing for Baba’s coming-home party. Hani was nervous since he had no memory at all of Baba. Fadi wanted to come with us, but Israeli law allowed only two people to receive each prisoner, so that the prisoner’s release wouldn’t be construed as a celebration.
I wanted it to be Abbas who came with me. I hoped that Baba could change his thinking, convince him that violence wasn’t the way. Abbas was obsessed with Dr George Habash and his Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.
At noon, five Israeli soldiers open
ed the gate and stood pointing their loaded Uzis at me, Abbas and the other Palestinians, dozens of them, who waited excitedly for the release of their loved ones.
As we stood in this awkward face-off, the force of the wind increased. Particles of sand started to vibrate, then saltate. The saltation of the sand particles induced a static electric field by friction. The saltating sand acquired a negative charge relative to the ground which loosened more sand particles. Before I knew it, the sandstorm overwhelmed us. I couldn’t see in front of me. It was in my mouth, ears, eyes. Children screamed. Men wrapped their kaffiyahs around their faces. Women did the same with their veils. Abbas lifted his arms to protect his face too quickly and winced in pain. When it died down, I brushed the sand off my body and then tried to brush off Abbas’ face so that he wouldn’t have to lift his arms, but he told me to stop. The tension between us was palpable. I couldn’t believe how much we’d grown apart. I desperately wished I could find common ground with him, but he sabotaged my every attempt. He couldn’t get past the fact that I worked with Professor Sharon.
The prisoners sat on the ground in lines, covered in sand. A soldier began calling out numbers.
‘One, two, three, four …’ he counted, finally ending with the number 2,023.
When a prisoner heard his number, he spun around and faced the prison. I spotted Baba in the crowd.
The head soldier lined up the twenty-eight prisoners who were to be released. As Baba walked to the line, the other prisoners shook his hand and high-fived him. Nearby guards even called their goodbyes, wishing him luck. This struck Abbas like a whip each time. Two soldiers patted down each prisoner as they proceeded, single file, through the gate to where we waited. Armed guards walked alongside them.
The prisoners, dressed in black, were of all ages. Some appeared to be not more than twelve or thirteen years old; a few looked like they were in their seventies. Guards propped up five of the prisoners who couldn’t seem to walk on their own. Baba ended up at the back of the line because of all the goodbyes – he even had guards at the gate patting him on the back.
Unable to wait, I ran to him. His two front teeth were missing and his face looked like a crumpled paper bag. Abbas and I kissed his right hand. Uncle Kamal waited around the corner in the car that he used as a taxi. Enough years had passed since Baba’s arrest that the Israelis no longer targeted our friends and family.
Mama and Nadia had taped plastic flowers all over the car and packed it with date and almond cookies, pistachios and almonds, figs, apricots, oranges, grapes and bottles of water. Baba sat next to Uncle Kamal, but kept looking back at me and saying, ‘I can’t believe that you’re a university student.’
Abbas was bent over holding his ribs and staring out of the window. Neither Baba nor I knew what to say to comfort him.
***
The courtyard of my family’s new house bubbled over with villagers when we arrived. I was happy Baba would never have to know of the infested tents where we had been forced to live for so many years. He barely made it out of the car before Mama, Nadia and Fadi hugged and kissed him. Tears welling up, he said ‘If only Amal and Sara were still with us.’
Hani stood back a little. I introduced him to Baba, and Hani held out his hand. Baba clasped it in his. It was awkward but I hoped, with time, they would get used to each other. Family members and villagers engulfed Baba.
Abu Sayeed brought his violin and Mama presented Baba with a second-hand oud. Within minutes, as if fourteen long years hadn’t passed, Baba and Abu Sayeed played together. Baba strummed and belted out songs. We laughed and danced until the wee hours of the morning.
The military rule over our village had ended in 1966 and we were no longer subject to curfews. Now, the military ruled the West Bank and Gaza. The tents across the border in the refugee camp in the West Bank were gradually being converted into a warren of concrete walls and corrugated tin roofs. We could hear bulldozers and gunfire during the day. The nights were quiet, as the people were locked down by the curfew.
The next day I took Baba around the back of the house to see the fourteen olive trees we had planted in his name. Amal and Sa’dah, the two original olive trees, had grown back tall and thick. They reminded me of my people. I’d spent many hours watching the Israelis as they harvested the olive trees confiscated from our village. They violently beat the trees with sticks to knock down their fruit. I’d marvelled that despite their exposure to beatings, arid landscape and fierce heat, the trees survived and bore new fruit year after year, century after century.
I knew that their strength lay in their roots, which were so deep that even if the trees were cut down, they survived and sent forth shoots to create new generations. I always believed that my people’s strength, like the olive trees’, lay in our roots.
Under the almond tree, I reiterated to Baba my desire to marry Amani. He gave me his blessing. That night, as Mama, my brothers and I sat outside drinking tea, I announced my intention.
‘Finally!’ Mama blurted out.
I would go to Amani’s house and ask for her hand in marriage.
CHAPTER 34
On the bus to Amani’s home, I planned what I would say to her father and thought about our life together. We’d marry in my village. Our first son would be named Mahmud. I anticipated kissing her, touching her. I’d do a post-doctorate abroad after I finished my PhD, maybe in America. Maybe, after that, I’d become a professor in an American university. Amani wanted to go to America.
Once I’d knocked on the door, I worried about my breath. My throat was so dry. How could I ask for her hand with bad breath? A man opened the door.
‘Good evening. My name is Ichmad Hamid.’
The man, who looked like he was in his late forties, had the same cheekbones and jaw-line as Amani. I waited, but her father remained silent. Why didn’t he invite me in?
‘I’m a PhD candidate in physics at the Hebrew University. I’d like to talk to you.’
Without emotion, he signalled for me to enter. Then he looked outside like he was checking if anyone had seen me come in. Once inside, I remained standing because her father didn’t invite me to sit on the floor pillows. The smell of my breath made me sick.
‘I met your daughter Amani at the university.’ I couldn’t believe her father didn’t even offer me water. He glared at me. The silence in the room was crushing. Each minute felt like a month.
‘I’m from the Triangle.’ I forgot everything I wanted to say. More awkward silence descended upon the room. Her father must have known what I wanted. Why else would I be here? I was a PhD candidate in physics. I’d earned the respect of both professors and students, Jews and Arabs.
Amani was already twenty-one years old. Most Arab girls from my country were not only married by that age, but had a number of children.
I thought of how Mama had jumped for joy when Ziad proposed to my sister Nadia, offering her nothing more than a room in his parents’ home. Nadia and Ziad had two more children and Nadia was pregnant again. There were already eleven in the room.
Amani’s father, with his hands on his hips, acted like I was wasting his time.
‘I’ve come to request your daughter Amani’s hand in marriage.’
‘No.’ His refusal was immediate.
I felt like I’d been slapped across the face. I stood, stunned, for a few moments. Never did I consider the possibility that her father would say no. Maybe he knew Baba had just been released from prison. Would the Israelis have told him? I tried to think of my next move.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘She’s married to my brother’s son.’
A knife in my heart would’ve been kinder.
‘Where is she?’ I asked. ‘I want to talk to her.’
‘She lives with her husband now.’
I managed to say, ‘Thank you. Thank you for your time, doctor,’ as I walked out. Once on the street, I cursed my culture for taking from women the right to choose their own spouse. I’d thought Amani h
ad been waiting for me to come and propose. How would I be able to tell Baba that I’d been rejected? Hadn’t he suffered enough? What about me? How would I go on without her? Had she known her cousin was going to marry her? Was this the same one she’d waged the hunger strike over to get out of marrying him? Is that why she dated me? Was she trying to make herself undesirable to him? Had she wanted to sleep with me so that, if she was forced to marry him, he would return her to her family because she wasn’t a virgin?
I headed to Jameel’s house. He knew I’d planned to ask her to marry me. Why hadn’t he mentioned her cousin?
Abu Jameel, with his perfectly groomed moustache and white robe, answered the door. ‘What an honour,’ he said. ‘Come in, come in. Please make yourself at home. Um Jameel, bring us tea, we have a very special guest. Ichmad’s here.’
Um Jameel entered with tea glasses and cookies. ‘I’ll fix a tray of my tastiest desserts in honour of your visit.’ She smiled.
‘Jameel told me that you’re doing your PhD. I’m so happy the two of you can continue living together,’ said Abu Jameel.
Um Jameel returned with still-warm date cookies and a platter of baklava. After an hour-long discussion about my academic success, physics, chemistry and the university, Jameel entered the living room.
He said, ‘What a great honour. I want to show you something,’ and led me to his bedroom.
I was relieved to be able to speak to him alone, even though it had felt good that Abu Jameel, the principal of the Arab high school in Acre, treated me with so much respect after Amani’s father’s rejection.
‘You know about Amani, I take it?’ Jameel said as soon as we entered his room.
‘Did you?’
‘It happened yesterday.’
Yesterday, as I’d celebrated with my family the idea that I was going to propose to Amani as if our marriage was a sure thing.
‘Is he worthy of her?’
‘He failed out of Haifa University. I bet Amani will have to support him.’
‘And my friendship with her?’
‘Gossip is like a desert storm.’
The Almond Tree Page 17
